Master of the steel bird
by Nephilim Rising
Summary: As the American aircraft carrier 'Yorktown' is sinking, Sephiroth faces a choice between saving no one and saving an enemy. WW2 AU, Battle of Midway. Sephiroth x Genesis. For Sphinxofthenile.
1. Part I

_Summary_: WW2 AU. Battle of Midway, June 1942. As the American aircraft carrier _Yorktown_ is sinking, Sephiroth faces a choice between saving no one and saving an enemy.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ Written as a Birthday fic and dedicated to my dear Sphinxofthenile. However, R&R is appreciated as always.

_**Warning: **_violence, angst, adult themes, light yaoi. And military stuff. Tonnes of it :)

PS. I know that airplanes are not made of steel. This is nothing but a 'romantic' metaphor :)

_**Short list of names, events, etc:**_

_Midway Atoll - _located in the North Pacific Ocean. In WW2 Midway was a convenient refuelling stop on transpacific flights, and was also an important stop for Navy ships, thus making it an important target for Japanese after the destruction of Pearl Harbour.

_IFF_ – identification, friend or foe, a cryptographic system that enables military interrogation systems to distinguish friendly aircraft, etc. Radio based during WW2.

_American planes – _Wildcat (F4F fighter model),TBD Devastator (torpedo bomber model), SBD Dauntless A-24 Banshee (dive bomber model). **  
**

_Japanese planes – _Zero (Mitsubishi A6M fighter model).

_Battle of Coral Sea – _a Naval engagement, preceding the Battle of Midway, occurred about a month before. 'Yorktown' was hit by a bomb then as well.

_Admirals – _American: Chester Nimitz, Fletcher; Japanese: Isoroku Yamamoto.

* * *

**MASTER OF ****THE STEEL BIRD**

"_Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?" (A. Lincoln)._

_**Part I.**_

_**Flight of the steel bird.**_

The airplanes reminded Sephiroth of steel birds, mighty and deadly, with dazzlingly glaring feathers and oblong beaks, as he watched dozens of them line up for the takeoff run on the narrow perfectly straight runway of the aircraft carrier. They were creations of human mind, balancing on the evanescent brink between the impossible and freedom, dreams that were born through persistence and curiosity long after Icarus pasted up holes between feathers with wax and flew up to challenge the sun.

Only metal could not melt.

The engines' roar deafened Sephiroth for a moment when the first plane sped up and its undercarriage lost touch with the deck, scattering his waist-length silver hair in the vehement gust of wind. As usually, he fancied he saw metallic wings bend and flap in a haughty, nearly regal manner, clearly standing out against the hazy crimson-painted welkin.

The aircraft carrier crawled unhurriedly, like a caterpillar on the waters, very soon surrounded by dozens of whizzing sparks as pilots were performing their routine drill. Laterally the hulk of _Yorktown_ looked invincible, crowned with the steel communication tower and her deck dotted with 5 and 1.1 inch calibre guns, but even with the layers of armour covering her engines the carrier had her weak vulnerable spots. Less than a month ago the floating steel fortress barely escaped her sunken sister's, _Lexington_, lot when a Japanese bomb exploded underneath her deck.

Sephiroth glanced at the skies with longing. That day wasn't his turn to fly the steel bird, however, he could at least watch, reminiscent of the sensations each flight stirred in him. Before he became the Lieutenant Commander he used to be a pilot or a bombardier on a TBD Devastator and, lying on the floor, looking down through the glass shielded chink, he felt as though the Earth belonged to him, so tiny, so frail it was with icy blue ocean waters dotted with small specks of ships.

He had the power to annihilate them with just one precise press of a button during one smooth straight-line run.

Straightening his always perfectly clean uniform, the Lieutenant Commander followed the reconnaissance planes with his always thoughtful emerald eyes, as they, one by one, disappeared in misty dusk.

"Lieutenant Crescent, Sir!" The hangar deck officer, Emerson, firmly held his hand to the peak of his black cap. Sephiroth dismissed the lower rank fellow crewman with a faint friendly smile.

"What do you think we shall find, Emerson?"

"Some Japanese bastards, Sir," the officer suggested with a wide grin. "It's time we hit them back and hit hard for the destruction of Pearl Harbor."

Indeed, it was time, like a month ago when he lost his only friend during the battle of Coral Sea. There was time to cast away stones and time to gather stones, as Petty Officer Angeal Hewley used to say. The wound was still fresh and bleeding although before they said their last farewells his friend had told him it had been his time to go. Angeal simply felt it.

Will he?

"I hope you are right, Emerson." Some of his feelings must have slipped through in harsher undertone, caused the man to look at him with confusion, but it wasn't the officer's fault. It was nobody's fault, unless he wanted to blame Hitler himself.

Or God.

Suddenly Sephiroth wanted to fly his plane; he wanted to feel he had control over something, would it be a torpedo dropped to destroy a Japanese ship or just a feeling of a wheel turning in his hands and a steel bird obeying his master's will.

Flying, it was easy to forget about everything, to escape into a world of his dreams and expectations, into a world of elated feelings and hollow illusions.

Some drank vodka. Others smoked tobacco or marihuana.

He mastered and tamed the haughty steel bird.

As Sephiroth headed for the crew quarters, he felt the deck slightly wobble underneath his feet, a minor inconvenience any marine was able to deal with, yet when he was dispatched for holidays the ground still swayed for months. Before descending the tortuous stairs the silver-haired Lieutenant Commander shot one last glance at _Yorktown_ which was inexorably speeding her passage through the dark Pacific waters towards her fate.

There was a time for everything.

…The light in the crew quarters was dim, small lamps hiding between bunks and behind the veil of thick cigarette smoke. As the floor gently quivered, the frail lights blinked, as though speaking to each other in a language no human being was ever able to comprehend. At the narrow bedstand his mates were playing Texas hold'em, a new variation of a traditional poker game, but no sooner had he entered than all marines jumped up and straightened, saluting him. At least, they maintained some discipline.

Having dismissed them, Sephiroth settled on his bunk and while his mates resumed playing, picked up a book and tried to read to occasional curses, laughs and loud idle talk.

It was Victor's Hugo _'The man who laughs'_, a tale of a man with a bizarre rictus smile carved into his face to his death, thus condemning him to laugh forever. This, two black and white pictures taken a while back at their home town in Virginia and a letter to his mother were the only reminiscent things left of Angeal. Sephiroth gave his friend a word he would send it to his mother after death, but days after days passed and young Lieutenant still could not compel himself to do it, knowing that the disastrous news will undermine Mrs. Hewley's already frail health. Having lost her husband, then her son, what was Jillian left to live for?

Sephiroth shifted his gaze to his mates and involuntarily heard scraps of their conversation. They were talking about the upcoming battle and he couldn't help but realize that they were right.

"Take all my shit!" Jethro Johnson, a sturdy young man, cursed under his breath and, having grabbed all his remaining tokens, angrily threw them into the pile in the middle of the bedstand. "After tomorrow I will not be needing it any longer!"

A marine to his right uttered a nervous laugh.

"You are damn optimistic about it."

"Optimism is rubbish. All optimists are already residing in Hell, Matthews. Rosso, Creg, Smith… I have a pair," he smiled wryly, forcedly, leaning against the chair's back to watch the third player with a straight flush collect all the tokens. "That is my damn luck, gentlemen. How many times did my father tell me to go to school? I didn't listen. However, if I did, I'd be in the Admiral's Nimitz shoes now and he'd be flying the accursed TBD devastator."

As cards were being dealt, Matthews interrupted the garrulous pilot, "Are you playing, Jethro?"

"No, I've lost all my shit. Unless you want my turn on that piece of junk tomorrow, I have nothing to offer. To the Japanese Zeroes we'll be sitting ducks, ready to be shot down as we come and I'd gladly trade my _duties_ with anyone."

"Rumour has it that Admiral Nimitz knows about the disposition of their fleet. Shouldn't it make our task easier?"

"God bless Nimitz, Mathews!" Jethro made a gesture as though he was about to pray. "But Nimitz dictates his rules from the safety of an air base. To our government he is too precious, whilst we are just unlucky cannon fodder…"

The hitherto reticent marine, a bombardier if Sephiroth remembered correctly, didn't restrain himself, having jumped to his feet and in his leap nearly overturning the stand and ruining the game.

"Oh, just shut up, will you, Jethro," his yell rang more desperately than menacingly, "or I swear I'll cut your whining myself!"

The said man cynically, albeit lazily, shrugged him off, "Save your zeal for tomorrow, for we shall all burn in hell."

A curt chuckle followed.

Cannon fodder. Into those words so much cold bitterness was put, cold as dark ocean waters, it nearly tasted salty on his tongue. Formerly he told Angeal that the world consisted of illusions, of personal lies men convinced themselves of because it was simple and convenient, yet his friend was a hopeless idealist, to his death having believed in quixotic ideals he fought and died for.

Sephiroth could not. He has seen too much of it all, and yet fought only because the alternative was even worse.

The young Lieutenant closed his eyes, slowly falling asleep to the monotonous sounds of the monstrous engines and boilers that pushed the floating fortress towards her Japanese sisters.

Steel was about to battle steel.

* * *

The placid summer morning was drowning in clouds of dove-coloured smoke, bathing in blood-red sunlight, and, torn by the inimical sounds of whizzing planes, exploding bombs and machine gun bursts, blooming lavish crimson. The pristine ocean waters foamed and boiled, cleaved by the sterns of four aircraft carriers with the flags of the Land of the Rising sun, a bloody-red star of the day on the pure white linen, flying over them. They were Yamamoto's hope, pride and might, four enormous carriers with over three hundred planes stationed on their decks. They were his longest and deadliest battle ships, just like those drawn on a sheet of lined paper for an innocent children's game with the same redoubtable name, sea fight.

_Akagi. Soryu. Kaga. Hiryu._

The blood sisters bore foreign names, which meant little to Americans when being pronounced, remaining only fremd series of sounds on their lips. However, to every Japanese citizen they lacked that mysterious foreignness, appearing for what they were. _Akagi _and _Kaga_ owed their names to the mount and the province of the land of the rising sun, while the last two signified a flying and a blue dragon. Those were proud names.

Against them Admiral Chester Nimitz brought forward their American sisters, _Hornet_, _Enterprise_ and _Yorktown, _the carriers with the names possessing hardly any less hubris than those of the enemy.

The bloody slaughter was to decide and crown the victors.

On the wide deck of _Yorktown _a group of men lined up, all of them belonging to the VT-3 attack group under the direct command of Lieutenant Commander Sephiroth Crescent. His silver-haired frame haughtily towered above the thin line of pilots and bombardiers; as he slowly went by, peering into their anxious, tensed faces, the marines straightened, proudly holding their hands to the peaks of their caps. If it was time for them to die, they were ready to go yet not before showing the world that they were heroes, that they loved their country.

Did America love them? In just a couple of decades their names were to remain on the pages of text books schoolchildren will flip with tedium, their faces to fade on the television screens and what they tried to protect to become a mockery.

The heroes died twice.

Did he pity them or himself?

Sephiroth was passing his mates, legs carrying him along the line in long measured strides. He was speaking to them, fighting his own fright, which, like a malignant tumour was spreading in his body, tightening his chest. However, his deep voice rang with calm reassurance, whereupon their faces lit up, their fears mollified for they always believed him.

"Remember, America does not need meaningless sacrifices. Our duty is not to die out there, but to return to our families and loved ones safely. Our duty is to drop that torpedo and come back. Understood?"

Eyes flashing, it came out in one unified, proud, "Yes, Sir!"

Sephiroth halted, letting a wan shadow of a smile touch the edges of his lips. They needed it; if it helped them return, he would do even more. He would do anything, however, little depended on him personally.

"Do not try to outmanoeuvre the nimble Zeroes, or play dodge fighting games with them, for you shall fail, inasmuch as they are faster than our devastators, they are more agile and movable; so when you see a Japanese fighter coming at you or tailing your aircraft, dive immediately. Forget about the torpedo, do not hope our fighter escort will take care of the enemy; do not think, just dive!" Emerald eyes slid along the rows of pale faces, stern, starlight, as though trying to literally instil, grind these little wisdoms into the young and often careless heads. "This is an order, gentlemen. Understood?!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Action stations!"

Already fuelled and fully armed, their devastators have been waiting for them on the runway. After the reconnaissance planes returned, Sephiroth received his orders to proceed with the attack on the Japanese aircraft carrier _Soryu_, and, being given the coordinates from the Rear Admiral Fletcher's stuff, in turn commanded the preparations to begin. They had to leave _Yorktown_ as soon as possible, for at the moment, if attacked by the enemy's bombers, the planes possessed a bigger threat to the carrier than offered protection.

The cockpit was narrow; however, everything inside the steel bird was so familiar and habitual, that the Lieutenant didn't need to think of his actions. Having started the engines, Sephiroth let them warm up, watching the other TBD Devastators crawling on the runway and taking wing.

"I believe it's my luck to serve with you today, Sir!" His bombardier, a young marine and an orphan like himself, remarked cheerfully, whilst the third crewman, a gunner and a radioman, kept silence. He had a fiancée waiting for him in Kentucky, a young pretty girl who wrote him letters every two weeks.

Sephiroth had no one, not a single person awaiting his return. It made his foreboding contemplation of morose doom a lot easier to bear.

The plane's engines were roaring steadily now and, pulling the control column, the silver-haired Lieutenant guided it towards the runway. It steered smoothly, gently trembling underneath him with some inhuman cold eagerness. Sephiroth learned to feel his aircraft, as though it was his second skin, his armour and, obeying his commands, it finally taxied up onto the straight line which ended in the blue-green eternity of the ocean waters.

"Lets' do it, gentlemen," quietly whispering, Sephiroth closed his eyes for just a moment to gird up and pressed into the acceleration pedal.

The engines forcedly roared, revving up, propellers cleaving the air, the fuselage shaking as the devastator went off, hell-bent, rushed to the alluring end of the greyish deck, shooting upwards just a moment before its undercarriage would have slipped off the runway and it would have plummeted headlong into the avid ocean depths.

Fingers firmly clenching the cold curves of the control column, Sephiroth led the plane upwards and then levelled it out, reaching the steady speed, whereupon he could relax and look around.

By now _Yorktown_ was a barely discernable dot on the wavy ocean surface. Through the glass shielding of the cockpit a seamless sky-blue eternity stared at him, bounded by two steel-blue wings and painted greenish underneath. The elated feeling of possessing the Earth returned, and suddenly there were no more tumours of fear or doubts eating him up from the inside. He was calm and imperturbable anew, hardly any different from the lifeless steel bird itself.

Sephiroth turned the Devastator, taking his place in the wedge-like skein that planes of his squadron formed.

"Good luck, Sir." Was it Jethro Johnson speaking?

"We'll all need it," a wry smile curving his lips, Sephiroth answered into the aero phone. Waves of feelings close to triumph rolled in, setting him free, deadly, bold and, as though answering his inner call, the devastator ebulliently roared, climbing upwards.

The Japanese squadron, _Soryu_ escorted by heavy and light cruisers, came into sight shortly and only then did Sephiroth realize that something has gone awfully wrong. The skies remained empty aside from the planes of his striking force, the absence of the escorting Wildcats signifying that, having lost on their way, the fighters left the vulnerable devastators without any support.

"Sir, I don't see the fighters…" someone's voice reached his ears, distorted by the aero phone to the point when he could not recognize who it belonged to.

He's already noticed the flaw. However, it changed little. The Admirals' order had to be carried out or the whole battle plan would be rendered to shreds.

Even their lives were not worth it.

"We are going in!" Recovering, the Lieutenant ordered as calmly as he could, rapidly descending to prepare for the low, smooth straight-line run to drop the torpedo at the silvery dot below.

It didn't take them long to appear. There was a gunner's shout in his ears, "The Zeroes!" as the IFF picked up numerous foreign targets, as big as flies, yet growing larger with each second. Skirting the VT-3 striking force from the left, the Japanese immediately opened fire and at the same time the _Soryu's_ deck guns returned to life, shooting spurts of flames at them. In the corner of his eyes a bright speck flared, chaotically tumbling down, engulfed in scarlet embrace of overwhelming fires. One went down, something cold and calculating told him. Who? Matthews? Jethro?

Sephiroth shook his silver head, once more concentrating on the controls because a dark blue and green speck flitted towards them. His devastator turned, dived abruptly at a nearly straight angle in the air, giving him the usual tingling along the neck, and thereupon a loud burst cut through his ears. The gunner opened fire at the Zero, which persistently hung on their tail; the Japanese returned the favour by activating his wing guns and aiming gushes of flames at his devastator.

Sephiroth swiftly and mercilessly turned the control column, sending his airplane rolling and whirling and out of the line of the Zero's fire. The world swirled before his eyes in a maelstrom of blurred images, blue blending with green, sounds merging into a meaningless cacophony, sunlight blinding him for an instant; someone, a bombardier or a gunner, uttered incoherent yells, meant to attract his attention, yet no sooner than he levelled out his plane again did the Lieutenant heard the exclamation, "One down!" The fire form their guns must have hit the Zero and sent it to the icy hell of the Pacific ocean waters. Sephiroth took a deep shaky breath, clutching the control column with force. Hands and legs were turning rigid from the strain. He could not afford himself to make a single mistake. He had only last hundred pages left to read in Angeal's book. Will he ever finish them? The thought was untimely and irrelevant, yet so human, as was fright. He could not afford himself to be human. Not now.

Later. Just a tiny bit later.

The struggle with the Japanese Zero carried them out into the open sea, away from the Soryu and the rest of the squadron, so Sephiroth abruptly pulled the control column towards himself to turn the bird around.

The devastator approached the carrier again, dived, slowing the pace, still devouring the distance between them too fast. Calmer, smoother, Sephiroth ordered himself, emerald eyes narrowed, calculating. The bombardier had to drop that torpedo onto the Japanese ship and damage her enough to repay for the heavy losses the Imperials inflicted on his squadron.

His hands were shaking and beads of sweat covered the marble forehead.

The torpedo left the safety of their plane, yet Sephiroth had no time to see whether it hit the carrier for utter mayhem ensued thereupon. The three Zeroes emerged from the misted expanse of the skies, having snatched at his already slightly frayed devastator as hounds into vulnerable bleeding prey.

The next moments blurred, slipping between dark blue fuselages and green shapes with polished black cowlings, American and Japanese, as Sephiroth was desperately trying to throw off the pursuers. Spurts of flames were gushing from the wings and cowlings, scratching his fuselage, longer tongues blossoming into greater gouts of fires and smoke as they hit again and again, sending one of the Zeros tumbling down in a heap of burning metal and human flesh.

"Holler 'nough, will you already!" The gunner screamed, his yell enraged and pained as, Sephiroth knew, the machine gun was turning sizzling hot in his hands. The burst turned into nearly deafening squeal when the Lieutenant sent his devastator nearly straight upwards and then something hot burnt his cheek, and the air in the cockpit went still. Having shot an evanescently short glance backwards, Sephiroth only saw a gaping hole in the glass shielding and a blooming crimson rose on the windscreen as his gaze returned to the scene in front.

"Winchester," he called out the gunner. "Winchester!"

"Dead, Sir," the bombardier replied somewhat helplessly. Sephiroth straightened the plane, harshly snapping at the latter's sloth. Every moment counted!

"Then take his place, God damn it!"

"Right away, Sir," the youth's mumblings drowned in an unpleasant screech as bullets hit their wing. It wasn't bad, it couldn't be.

In the meanwhile the Americans were losing plane after plane to the Japanese Zeroes. Out of twelve devastators of the torpedo squadron VT-3 only four remained in the air and, judging by the trenchant silver line of _Soryu _unhurriedly steaming forward, none of the torpedoes hit. Wildcats remained lost in the vast expanse of cerulean skies and hope they will show up soon was dwindling with each moment.

Confound it!

He refused to join this macabre mayhem.

In the corner of his left eye the engine was dripping with black greasy smoke, but at least it wasn't emitting helpless choking sounds as it did when about to shut down. The airplane continued flying steadily. Sephiroth pushed the acceleration button, meaning to cut his way through the rows upon rows of Zeros and into freedom. To a prudent observer this could have seemed a suicidal intention, however, in Lieutenant's state it hardly mattered. A feeling he was invincible and immortal suddenly supplanted the antecedent despair to which he nearly gave in, now straightening in the chair and abandoning any thoughts of jumping off the plane to intentions of guiding the steel bird against the enemy.

The bombardier must have followed his order for the machine guns again chocked with bursts that served if not the purpose of rendering the Zeroes harmless then at least keeping them at a safe distance.

Sephiroth pressed the acceleration button all the way down and as the wounded plane swept past the group of Japanese fighters, finally noticed the quickly augmenting steel line, emerging from underneath the veils of battle smoke, and as the skies were dotted with the whizzing Dauntless Banshees and Wildcats, croaked into the aero plane, "Pull out," unsure whether he was heard or not and whether there was anyone left to hear him.

He had done everything he could, everything that was in human power. It was time to return to _Yorktown_.

A random gush of machine gun fire lashed the devastator, having hit its fuselage, and an acute yell followed.

"I've been hit," the bombardier let go of the gun and helplessly groaned. "Sorry, Sir, I can't keep firing. Hurts like hell… my shoulder…"

Mercilessly biting his lower lip, Sephiroth forced a feignedly cheerful yet much needed, "Don't apologize, Gibson, just hold on!"

The control column, heated with his sweating palms, turned rabidly; with one of its engines nearly dead the devastator lurched, climbing upwards with whatever last strengths it had, leaving the shrouded with thick smoke battlefield behind and as Sephiroth shot one last glance at the carnage below, he realized that their sacrifice wasn't all vain. A macabre scarlet flower was blooming where _Soryu _proudly towered above the ocean only a moment ago. One of the dive bombers must have hit its deck with the bomb when it was most vulnerable, preparing to launch fuelled Zeros to counter the new threat.

Of how he got back to _Yorktown_ nearly no memories remained. There was blackness in front of his eyes, as the cowling began to sink and the smoke from the burning left engine misted the windshield. The horizon was swiftly plummeting down, yet they held until the grey outlines of their aircraft carrier came in sight.

As soon as the undercarriage of the burning plane touched the deck, crew members with hoses hurried towards them. Having pushed the glass shield ajar and coughing from the acrid smell, Sephiroth nearly tumbled out of the cockpit, however, soon getting back his self-mastery. He had a wounded bombardier on board.

The gunner was dead, his body sprawled on the floor where Gibson left him, his pale face already having tinged yellow, erasing any traces of prettiness from his youthful face. The bullet hit the gunner in the chest and an ugly dark spot has spread across his uniform, soaking cloth in blood. His fiancée will live to see him, however unfortunate, in a coffin only.

The bombardier was slightly luckier, receiving a bullet in his shoulder and now helplessly rested against the back of the chair, gasping and chocking with blood that was profusely seeping from the corner of his mouth. As the Lieutenant seized him by his uniform, the marine's hands clutched his collar, utterly wild eyes focused on the marble face, and he heard a faint, pleading, "Help me… please…"

He screamed while Sephiroth was dragging him out of the plane, however, the silver-haired Lieutenant ignored the yells, having helped the bombardier to get out of the devastator and passed him onto the other crew members.

One more plane from the VT-3 striking force came back to _Yorktown_ that day. Two more pilots were fished out of the icy cold water later on. One of them was Jethro Johnson.

None else survived.

* * *

Alone, Sephiroth awoke on his bunk when the first bomb had hit _Yorktown_. Violent shudders ran through her hulk, followed by another, stronger series as the second bomb penetrated the carrier's defences. The floor underneath his feet swayed, lights were knocked down and darkness fell, swallowing the small room on the third deck.

Sephiroth leapt up to his feet, blindly groping for some support, and, having clutched the steel railing of his bed, followed along the row of bunks until it led him out into the scarcely alight corridor.

And he was just beginning to think it was the end of the battle for him.

People were screaming somewhere ahead and above. If he remembered the layout of the ship correctly, the cries were heard from the boiler's area which could mean that the engines were hit.

Without losing any more time, Sephiroth ran towards the exit. The least of all he wanted to be trapped in the burning husk of a dying ship.

A third bomb hit _Yorktown_ shortly afterwards, cutting the ground from under his feet and with the sharp pain in his back and head the world turned into an opaque hollow.

When, lying by the convoluted stairs, the silver-haired Lieutenant awoke for the second time the corridor was filled with acute sounds of the evacuation signals. While he was unconscious the aircraft carrier must have been mortally wounded by either Japanese bombs or torpedoes or both.

With a faint groan Sephiroth reached out for his head, feeling a wet clot between his fingers and a spark of pain as he touched the wound on the top of his head. The world gave a lurch as he tried to straighten, grapping the handrails, yet the vision cleared after he made himself take a couple of steps. Staggering, the Lieutenant Commander of the defunct VT-3 squadron reached the upper deck only to see the last evacuation boats being lowered along the offside and bear away.

Agonizing, the enormous hulk of _Yorktown _was drifting in the ocean without any control, like a lone speck lost in its vast expanse. It was careening as well, making it harder for him to stroll towards the hangar in a desperate hope to find at least one fuelled plane.

The hangar floor was dotted with burned corpses and melted debris from the fuselages of the exploded planes. Tottering, Sephiroth headed past them towards the Wildcat in the furthest corner of the huge premises.

The fires have been recently raging inside and a huge hole gaped in the roof, likely, damaged by one of the bombs. By the only plane left intact more bodies lay. For some reason Sephiroth halted by them, noticing two dead marines pierced with steel debris and a third man who, judging by the uniform, appeared to be one of the Japanese pilots who was, likely, fished out of the waters with the rest of American crew. When Sephiroth bent over him to touch his pulse, he felt the latter's heart faintly throbbing under his fingers.

He was alive.

The enemy was alive.

Sephiroth's first thought was to finish him off to avenge the loss of the squadron, yet something held his hand, forestalling from delivering the death blow. Why were they enemies? Only since the Japanese Emperor decided to join his forces with Hitler against the American president? Governments waged wars. They, citizens and patriots, were grinded for their greed or whims.

Right now they were not enemies but rather pawns who ended up in the middle of worldwide mayhem.

Resolutely Sephiroth picked up the man with bloodied auburn hair and with much ado dragged him into the Wildcat, having taken a seat in front and started the engines thereupon. Fickle lady luck was on his side when familiar roar filled his ears and the plane slowly crawled into the opening. Only then Sephiroth suddenly remembered he had left the book with Angeal's pictures and letter in his room, yet it was too late to return.

The plane eagerly soared upwards, leaving mortally wounded _Yorktown _together with a part of his life behind forevermore. Looking down at the hulk helplessly drifting below, Sephiroth couldn't help but ruefully think that she had lived and fought beautifully.

As did Angeal.

… They landed on a small unmanned island in the Midway Atoll when Sephiroth could no longer fly. The strain of the earlier battle together with the wound on his head told upon him and, afraid he would faint and lose control of his steel bird, the Lieutenant decided to go for an emergency landing.

As soon as the undercarriage touched the sand covered shore and the airplane froze with its cowling stuck in the tangle of lianas, his head dropped onto the control column and, enfeebled, Sephiroth let his shoulders stoop and his hands slip off the panel. Then he vaguely remembered someone's strong arms wrapping around his neck followed by sensation of floating in thin air. A scrap of blue skies flashed in-between silver tresses scattered on his face and then there were eyes, bright and bottomless, overshadowing even the eternity of cerulean welkin whenever the man he saved bent over him. And as, having gently placed him onto the sand, the stranger whispered, "Sleep, you deserved it," Sephiroth thought he heard unearthly music, so warm the words were, so emollient, and with a faint smile he let his eyes close anew.


	2. Part II

_Summary_: WW2 AU. Battle of Midway, June 1942. As the American aircraft carrier _Yorktown_ is sinking, Sephiroth faces a choice between saving no one and saving an enemy.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N:_ I am so happy you liked it! ;) I was a little doubtful, since it's a very militarized story, which not that many people like. Anyways, enjoy the second part and I am off to the reconstruction of the battle of Crecy :D

* * *

_**Part II.**_

_**Gift to the enemy.**_

The bluish-green waves were lazily licking Sephiroth's heels, rolling in and back, cooling his naked skin. Having barely escaped death's claws, the young Lieutenant Commander lay on the beach of the small island, thinking of nothing, remembering nothing, vacant emerald eyes staring at the fleecy clouds above.

He didn't even want to think of the reasons he saved the enemy's life or remember he has just lost a whole squadron.

Genesis sat on the sand somewhere by the Wildcat, however, he didn't wish to turn just to find out whether the latter was still therein. Genesis. The Lieutenant Commander inquired the Japanese pilot's name for the sole reason of being stuck with him on the small unmanned island for who knew how much time. Weeks? Months? Perhaps, even years.

If he could survive, that is.

When Sephiroth woke up on the wet sand and prepared to continue the flight, he discovered that one of the chassis was damaged by the landing and, unless he could fix it with whatever means available on the plane's board, they were imprisoned on the small piece of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

He and the enemy.

A bigger wave rolled in, upcast spray of salty water falling on his face and Sephiroth brushed it off with a subconscious gesture.

Genesis understood English and spoke it well, with just a slightest trace of a Japanese accent, which in different circumstances he would have found amusing. It made him think that the redhead had previously been to the United States or Britain.

Just as Sephiroth recalled Genesis a long shadow fell on his face, having shielded his eyes from merciless sunlight, and the said Japanese pilot took a seat by his side, handing him a huge shell filled with crystal clear water.

"It's fresh," the remark rang with the same melodic notes the Lieutenant remembered from hearing that voice for the first time. Having shrugged indifferently, he accepted the shell, brought to his lips and avidly gulped the contents. Although being fresh, water still tasted of pungent salt.

Intrinsically, he didn't care about the redhead's presence. They were enemies insofar as their countries were at war with each other. Sephiroth could neither say he hated the pilot, nor say he sympathized with him.

"I appreciate it," his indifference was nonetheless polite. Something inevitably sparks between the two tied with a bond of sharing a saved life. Since he hasn't yet died, Sephiroth assumed Genesis wasn't going to avail himself on the opportunity and cut his throat in his sleep. He could have done it while the Lieutenant was weak and helpless.

The shadow quivered, moving away, and bright sunlight lashed his eyes again. Having absently shaded them with his hand, Sephiroth stretched on the warm sand, again thoughtless, again hollow.

He will rest and then think of what to do next.

* * *

In the evening glows of lurid fires embellished the dark line of the horizon, painting it with all shades of red and crimson, and a cacophony of inimical sounds was wafted to their ears. Obviously, the battle of Midway wasn't yet over, and that uncertainty begot the question of who was winning, which, however, hung silently in the warm air between them. From time to time one of the pilots cast a glance towards the dark waters, making it unnoticeable for the other, as both were hiding behind the mask of complete indifference. Admitting concern was equal to admitting a weakness, which was hardly a wise choice in the presence of an enemy.

A smaller fire burnt on sand between them. Having gathered some damp twigs in the tropical forest and then let those dry in the sun, Sephiroth was able to light a fire with matches he found on board of the now useless Wildcat and just a drop of fuel. They had to use it sparingly due to obvious dearth otherwise none of them was going to last long.

Genesis contrived to catch a large fish in the fresh streamlet and now it was slowly broiling, that being their frugal dinner. At least, for now they will not die from starvation.

It appeared as due to some acquiescence both pilots agreed to work together in order to survive.

Suddenly Genesis began humming in Japanese, keeping his azure eyes downcast, fixed on long fingers twiddling with a hollow shell. In moments like this Sephiroth was suddenly willing to forget they were enemies and surrender himself to a simple human liking for the redheaded man in front of him.

Maybe, if circumstances decided otherwise, they could have become friends.

"What is it?" Having listened with delight, the silver-haired Lieutenant didn't notice when a quiet question passed his lips.

"Poetry by Motoori Norinaga." The redhead drawled with an accent, then paused, thoughtful for a moment. "Asked about the soul of Japan,

I would say

That it is

Like wild cherry blossoms

Glowing in the morning sun. That is how it would sound in your language." He finished with a smile, which was not meant for him. It was just a reminiscent smile, born out of depths where warmth still lingered, lively, sparkling depths and thereat war, hatred had little power. Yet.

Sephiroth stirred smoldering embers under the meal and inquired, having succumbed to curiosity, "Where did you learn English so well?"

"Oxford University." The silver eyebrows arched. "Are you surprised? Admiral Yamamoto graduated from Harvard. We are not barbarians there, you know."

The last words betrayed his caustic indignation and umbrage, as though he expected Sephiroth to treat him as one before the latter even spoke.

The Lieutenant Commander shrugged, having remarked with nonchalance, "I never implied you were."

The silence, interrupted by exploding bombs, lingered, mantling them with thick veil of unspoken anxiety and demurs. They both hoped their country would win, and those hopes, although never voiced out, were battling each other with no less ferocity than the steel ships in the open sea. Their hopes had no right to exist on one island. They knew it.

After all, they were enemies.

"You must be from a wealthy family." Sephiroth finally tore the web of heavy quiescence between them, however, abstaining from displaying any feelings. The conversation was meaningless, curt, strained.

Genesis nodded, having taken his part of the meal out of the fire. "You can say so."

There was something underneath his casual replica, a hidden irony woven into patterns of yet deeper acerbic aversion, yet his mysteries concerned Sephiroth little; more so, as per the redhead's reluctance, he had a perfect right to be tacit. "Where are you from?"

Genesis wanted to change the subject and he assented, "I was born in Yorktown, Virginia."

There was nothing left to ask without delving deeply into personal details, which none of them truly wanted, so the meal went by in utter silence. By the time they had finished eating, the horizon died, immersed into darkness and unwonted stillness, leaving them guessing the outcomes yet again. Then Sephiroth got two blankets from the cockpit and handed one to the redhead, spreading out the other on the soft sand under the clear unmarred welkin.

If not for the war raging in the ocean, the island would be a small paradise. He must have said it aloud, for the Japanese pilot uttered an incoherent replica. Sephiroth turned to ask again, his silver eyebrows creeping upwards in genuine amazement as he understood that Genesis was laughing.

…In the morning two swollen bodies in Japanese uniforms washed up on the shore. They dragged them out of the waters and buried in the tropical forest under the evergreen trees with huge succulent leaves. Together.

Silently.

* * *

The conversation started out of sheer boredom. His forehead covered in sticky sweat, Sephiroth has spent last three hours before sunset underneath the Wildcat, attempting to fix the chassis. The problem turned out to be minor and by morrow or the day after that the Lieutenant was expecting to see his steel bird fly, however, Genesis wasn't supposed to suspect anything. Sephiroth wasn't prepared to answer the obvious question.

What will happen to the redhead?

Genesis appeared out of the slightly quivering air with another shell filled with fresh water and held it to his lips, while he avidly drank. The heat was debilitating, having dried the Lieutenant's uniform which now adhered to his skin, hindering him, each movement in the rough, salt covered clothing unpleasant.

When the redheaded pilot brought the shell for the second time, his palms unnoticeably slid under Sephiroth's neck to keep it steady, the intentions nothing but chaste. Then Sephiroth recalled a fickle sensation of being carried in those arms more vividly than he should have and, engrossed in his reminiscent thoughts, lingered in the redhead's embrace longer than he should have, feeling the latter's sapphire gaze burn.

Having caught himself thinking that the touch was not at all upsetting or unpleasant, Sephiroth stirred, leaning back against the sand to resume his tedious work on the chassis, but Genesis didn't leave, having settled therebeside.

"Tell me, Sephiroth, why did you go to war?"

The tone was casual, quite disinterested, so he took it as a sign of idle curiosity and didn't expect Genesis to want a genuine answer.

"I was given an order. Are you satisfied now?"

Genesis' lush lips curved into a smirk that reeked of such superiority, as though he knew Sephiroth better that the Lieutenant knew himself. "I am not. Those like you don't just follow orders."

Sephiroth put the instruments aside and raised himself on the elbow, his face showing all vexation he felt at the moment.

"Why do my reasons concern you so much?"

"I wish to know why you saved me." The smirk disappeared, yet in the tilt of his head, in the glimpse of sapphire between auburn tresses, like this he was still laughing. "I am a Zero pilot on _Akagi_… was on _Akagi_, since my carrier is no more. I am sure I've shot down many Americans that day."

It didn't escape Sephiroth's heed that Genesis was talking about the loss of the Japanese carrier with indifference, his pose on the sand natural and calm. To him defeat mattered little or so it seemed.

Realizing that, Sephiroth bitterly inquired, "Does it make you proud?"

The redhead didn't expect a question like that and thus didn't have any time to hide behind fallacy. "It doesn't."

That was the answer Sephiroth needed.

"But you still love your country, don't you?"

Thereat he was wrong, for cerulean eyes blazed up as two bottomless stars he so well remembered, and Genesis snapped, "Don't think you know everything about me just by making some apt guesses, Sephiroth. I hate Japan and I serve because I don't wish to share Haru's fate! Maybe, then I can become a hero for both of us."

'Who was Haru,' Sephiroth wanted to ask, yet his redheaded interlocutor wasn't obviously in the mood to give him any explanations. He has already said too much, so instead the Lieutenant chose a less painful subject, "I don't see many reasons to hate your own country."

"My _parents_ betrayed me, Sephiroth." Genesis acrimoniously traversed, letting his feelings show anew, which was unexpected. They were not in a confession room. "They preferred I became a kamikaze rather than returned home alive, whereas I would rather die myself than come back to their _loving _embrace." So Genesis turned out a spoiled rich child, who never understood how it was to live without parents at all. Whatever the reason was, it, most likely, will sound worthless. "They told me I'd rather die than continue disgracing them, but I am not dying for any country or cause."

"Why?"

Instead of answering Genesis slowly extended his hand and his long refined fingers ghosted over the marble face; the touch was again strangely pleasant, as that of a sculptor marvelling his creation. Sephiroth followed the slender hand with his eyes until it slipped under his collar, moved away thereupon, feeling slightly taken aback at the redhead's impudent behaviour. His azure eyes were softly glowing in ensuing darkness, yet the spark immediately died out with his cold, curt, "You are forgetting we are enemies, Genesis."

The redhead leapt up to his feet at once, turning so that the Lieutenant could no longer see his eyes, just the slender frame, dark and faceless, outlined by dwindling sunlight and auburn hair gilded in their fading caress.

"The notion of enemy is a flaw of human perception," the melodic voice was distorted by anger and he didn't like it, albeit could do nothing now. "Nature doesn't know hatred or prosecution, they were begotten with us."

Genesis disappeared from his sight with a disdainful scoff, dramatic and arrogant, true to his suddenly revealed nature, however, unmistakably offended. Sephiroth shook his head. What did the redhead expect from both of them?

Having shaken annoying sand grains off his uniform, Sephiroth rose and strolled towards the fresh streamlet.

Did the redhead mean his last words and what difference did it make? They were human and until then there could hardly be any sympathy between them, more so since soon he will be forced to give Genesis up to the government.

Perhaps, the latter suspected it.

Having slipped out of his uniform, the silver-haired Lieutenant threw it into the fresh water to wash salt and sand off it. It was already turning threadbare, the cloth faded and most of the ensigns were lost. Usually he would be dissatisfied. Right now he hardly cared.

Discarding the rest of the slough, Sephiroth stepped into the stream and cupped his hands to scoop a handful of refulgent in the moonlight water. After the sultry summer day its flow on his skin was refreshing, intoxicating almost, as clear droplets fell onto his silver hair, tangling between the long locks like sunlit dew.

He heard faint steps after the flap of wings and the tropic bird cut short its rollicking song. Apart from them, there was no one on the island, so this had to be Genesis and the pair of prying eyes had to have belonged to the redhead.

Why did he come?

Until he finished washing the uniform, through semidarkness the Lieutenant could feel azure gaze upon him, nearly tangible and so shamelessly desiring it sent shivers up and down his bare spine that had little to do with the coolness of fresh water.

…In the morning Sephiroth woke up, dithering in the chilly wind, with Genesis' head resting on his shoulder and somehow desire to push the redhead away died, barely having flared.

Somehow, secretly from the whole world and, likely, from himself as well Sephiroth was glad to feel someone's presence by his side for the first time since Angeal's death.

Even if Genesis was an enemy.

Wasn't he?

* * *

The screaming man in his dream was a burning torch, flames lavishly poured over his frame so that features, concealed beneath the tongues, were no longer possible to behold. Sephiroth couldn't tell whether it was Angeal or not, only that the bomb had hit _Yorktown_ and he had to flee, yet his legs, rigid and heavy, could not move, remaining glued to the floor despite his inhuman efforts to budge.

The Lieutenant Commander awoke with a jerk in the middle of the night, realizing he's been clutching the thin blanket in his hands in a desperate attempt to cover himself from the chill and the horrors of his dream.

Angeal burnt in the engine compartment while he was flying his Devastator. He's never seen his friend die. Only imagine.

The moon bled silver onto the dark waters as, tottering, Sephiroth neared the ocean and knelt by it on the wet shore, cupping the acrid salty liquid with his trembling hands to wash his face.

It was insane, the war, however with some cold rationality he knew that mankind needed wars. What was it? A flaw in the grand design, if there ever was one?

The water burnt.

Genesis slipped by silently, but not until he spoke did the Lieutenant realize that the redhead was watching him, likely, for a while.

"You don't need to tell me you've lost someone, it is all reflected in your eyes," the pilot's voice was soothing, enveloping, but Sephiroth couldn't allow himself to seek consolation in him, for they were destined to be enemies, confining themselves to tepid politeness. Not more.

But for all that when the slender yet strong palm settled on his shoulder, he didn't move away. He didn't move at all, dropping his silver head onto his chest to aimlessly watch specks of moonlight dance on the ocean, piercing the dark waters and illumining its bottom.

It was logical for him to leave, but instead Sephiroth found himself speaking, "You must have felt it, too, otherwise you'd never see it."

Genesis' reflection joined his in the mirror-like depths, quivering, distorted, yet beautiful nonetheless. Sephiroth could no longer deny there was sympathy between them, however caged and broken it might be.

Genesis' fingers stroked his cheek, slowly, almost thoughtfully and he leaned into that evanescent silent touch, suddenly craving it and wishing the redhead would not stop.

"Ah, how astutely of you to say that," the melodic voice continued with mocking fondness, as arms flowed around his neck from behind, bringing his silver head closer to the redhead's chest. "However, you are right. Consider it honesty for your veracity. Don't you wish to forget at times, though?"

Sephiroth ignored the obvious question, "How did you lose Haru?"

That name has once slipped from the redhead's lips, as the latter was carried away by his feelings.

For a moment Genesis tensed behind him and he thought he would not answer until the pilot regained his composure, whispering, "As devoted traditionalists as they are, my parents could not accept that their only son loved another man. They banished me and executed him," the touch faded into a warm kiss of gentle summer wind. "Isn't it cruel?" The redhead rose to leave. "I suppose I should be grateful they were my parents and not Haru's."

"Are you?"

Genesis' answer was a cold chuckle vanishing into the starlit night.

* * *

They were kissing on the sand, dominating and submitting alternately, fighting even now while lavishly offering love and caress. Genesis lithe body was firmly trapped between his thighs underneath, a naked curve upon curve, scorching as sand they lay on, venereal in its passion and begging him for more.

He could have stopped if the redhead's palms were not stroking his thighs in a continuous exquisite manner. He could have stopped if the lips on his tongue were not so lavishly soft.

For a moment they froze like that, panting, gasping, aroused and in that pause Genesis' refined fingers slowly traced thin lips, opening his mouth while gently countering it. Suddenly Sephiroth recoiled only to be stopped by almost breathless whisper, "Don't go… please… you are killing me…"

He could have stopped if he knew how to find an excuse.

"We are enemies, Genesis." It was worthless, drowning in a faint mocking smile on swollen lush lips, "If you hate me, why did you save me then?"

Genesis was smug. He was no less.

"Don't confuse pity and attraction."

"You lie. I know you do."

Sephiroth sighed, looking down. The next moment they were kissing anew, tongues dipped deeply in each other's mouths and hands stroking skin in a sinful rhythmic ardor to the faint waking moans.

_The notion of enemy is a flaw of human perception…_

Genesis' pants were rigid from salt, unyielding, yet Sephiroth tore them off wildly to feel the softness of immaculate skin and hardness he begot with his lips and hands. Another louder moan passed Genesis' lips, as his body curved into a delightful arch to feel Sephiroth better, slipping between his fingers, back and forth, faster.

Lips joined with lips again, quickened breath mingled with breath, and then he raised the redhead's thighs a little to complete their love.

Not like he's never felt it before, but, maybe he didn't. Not like that. Not with Genesis.

Too much. Too hot. Too soon.

Sephiroth uttered a passionate scream, sliding into the damp warm pit and constricting inside in blissful agony. His lover pulled him up, exhaling a sound of ecstasy and flashing sapphire flames at him through tangled damp auburn tresses.

"Don't stop… please…"

However, now Sephiroth could not stop even if had to.

Before going still in each other's arms their bodies eloquently and boldly told of everything, of longing, of solitude, of loss, their lips would never speak aloud.

* * *

A destroyer with the American flag flying over its massive hulk came in sight early next morning, looming on the horizon as a menacing shadow. It most likely meant that they won the battle of Midway and Japanese lost.

Genesis wasn't wounded, sad, perhaps, but in this case he hid his feelings well.

They sat on the beach in each other's arms for the last time. Sephiroth knew he had eventually made the right choice, if there ever was right or wrong in their case.

The master of the steel bird will give up his powers to gift his enemy with freedom.

Armed and ready, the Wildcat stood on the makeshift runway on the sand shore and, when Sephiroth saw a boat detaching from the destroyer, he rose, gestured towards the plane.

Genesis understood. Having silently gathered all his modest possessions, he threw them into the cockpit, yet before climbing the ladder they had wattled the day before, turned to ask, "How can I ever repay you for saving me twice?"

Sephiroth smiled, "You already have," as the shackles closed around his wrists with a faint clang.

The last kiss was bitter, lacking any promise, however, not devoid of ennui and warmth. Genesis hungrily clung to him, twining his arms around the chiselled neck, and lithe body he once felt naked trembled, responding to the sensual caress of his tongue.

Too much. Too late.

The American boat was already close, so the silver-haired Lieutenant forced himself to take a step back and gently pushed his redheaded lover towards the cockpit, "Go."

He hastily nodded, climbed inside, hiding beneath the glass shielding, and started the engines. Sephiroth recognized that ebullient roar, which signified the plane was ready for the take off, for a moment having foolishly wished something went wrong.

It wouldn't have changed a thing.

Genesis pressed down the hammer and off went his Wildcat, losing touch with the ground and engendering a vehement gust of wind that scattered his silver hair and buried his lover's frail tracks under the sand.

Someone shouted from the boat, opened fire from the light machine gun, but the plane was already too far.

With a flicker of a smile Sephiroth followed the Wildcat with his eyes until it turned into a black indistinguishable dot in the cerulean emptiness, carrying Genesis and one evanescent night of love with it.

It changed something in him, made him realize that, to obviate an enemy, it wasn't always necessary to take the latter's life as he was used to. The Wildcat was no longer in sight, swallowed by the fathomless azure, however, warmth lingered, wan yet undying, whenever Sephiroth remembered that in the mysterious Land of the Rising Sun he now had at least one friend.

* * *

_**Epilogue.**_

The wind was freezing as it should be in early December. Barren trees stood, reaching out for the dull skies with their black branches, their ugly twisted frames standing out against the white, faintly glistening veil of falling snow. On the ground rows upon rows of identical tombstones diverged in different directions, forming a pattern similar to the one on the Arlington Cemetery miles away from the small town on the coast.

Yet, however little in size, Yorktown bore such significance in the American history it could hardly be underestimated. It witnessed the surrender of Lord Cornwallis during the American Revolution and later on played an important role during the Civil War; it saw how America was born, battled for Independence and writhed, torn between the Union and the Confederacy.

A lone silhouette in the full Lieutenant's uniform froze by one of the unobtrusive graves. The wind stirred last brown leaves with a fringe of white tracery under his feet, threw damp snowflakes in his face, playing with waist-length silver hair, yet the man stood quiescent and silent as the nature itself. Only once he moved to hide his freezing gloved hands in the pockets of the long coat.

The former Lieutenant Commander Sephiroth Crescent was looking at his friend's grave more than three years after his death. Even after the war he didn't come here often, for neither did he want to contemplate on Angeal's death too much, nor could he offer anything to his friend now; even the flowers were not left by him. His ex-girlfriend brought those every once in a while and now, fresh and live, they stood, slowly withering, already scorched by biting frost. Sephiroth felt as though being repelled by dullness of cemeteries and endless rows of tombstones reminded him of those he killed, of those whose silhouettes he's been seeing every night no matter how much time had passed.

It was said not for nothing that underneath each tombstone a separate and whole universe lay.

Universe-memory. Universe-prison. Universe-pain.

Useless universe.

After all, who will bother worrying about dreams and aspirations of the dead?

The silver-haired silhouette bent over the tombstone, one of the many on the Yorktown cemetery, with a name dear to him forever carved into the whiteness. He will remember Angeal's dreams and cherish them for his friend, even if there was none else.

The thin lips whispered, "Farewell, Angeal," as the silver-haired Lieutenant straightened, wincing from pain in the old wound.

How many times did he say his farewells? The hollow universe swallowed them all.

Clenching his freezing fingers in the pocket, Sephiroth threw his head back, thin lips pursed and vacant emerald eyes set against the greyness of clouds.

Oblivion was gratitude to both of them. When his superiors ordered him, the best pilot in American Navy, to fly the Enola Gay B-29 bomber to drop the nuclear bomb on Hiroshima, Sephiroth resigned. He couldn't take it any longer. Of course, it didn't change anything. The bomber was flown and the Little Boy was dropped, the unprecedented bombardment resulting in thousands and thousands of civilian casualties, yet he could now appease himself, thinking that it was not his fault and that he didn't take any part in that monstrous carnage.

How petty.

The gloved fingers sliding off the tombstone, Sephiroth turned to walk away. As always, he came here to remember Angeal, yet ended up recalling so much more of his pain that the ennui for the flight became unbearable.

He could no longer fly. The glistening wings were cut and, aberrant in darkness, the steel bird's master had to walk blindly on the ground.

There were faint steps on the crispy snow behind him and a toy airplane landed on the tombstone so fast he barely noticed a slender hand that put it thereto. It was a Wildcat, its older model, so meticulously crafted he could have sworn it was real even if small.

Something warm in his chest fluttered, shrunk as his fingers timidly picked up the hollow reflection of his dead dream. "I am no longer flying."

Whoever came to tempt him with the reminiscent longing for the flight erred. They had to be from the government, no less, and he was done working for the government. Subconsciously Sephiroth even expected a cold barrel of a revolver to be set against his back, yet instead it was a slender palm on his shoulder and a vaguely familiar melodic voice, slightly gibing at him, at them, "Did you think of me often?"

It was Genesis; it had to be, for no other man on Earth possessed the same beauty in his voice. Sephiroth dithered, still clenching a Wildcat model in his left hand while the right slowly moved to cover the stranger's fingers, to feel their strength and closeness.

It was unreal as before. Genesis either lived in Japan or died in the war. It was too good to be true.

"Tell my why."

"Why and not how, you ask. The other question is a much more interesting one, however, let me indulge your curiosity the way you want me to." The man with Genesis' voice was still playing hide-and-seek, unwilling to show his face. "Once there lived a boy in a cage, thinking he was free and bold until he met a stranger who gave him a steel bird as a gift, thus showing he knew none of those. Isn't it a trivial tale to be told?"

The melodic voice was playful, as though iridescent. There was only one man he knew of once that could talk about serious matters, as if they all were but a game.

Genesis.

Sephiroth turned and gasped even if quietly, "Genesis."

Azure reflected in bright emerald pools, laughing azure, the redhead's smile flaring as sunlight on the steel feathers.

"You still remember me. That was all I needed to know."

The small Wildcat fell on the ground, as Genesis took a shameless step that still held them at a decorous distance and lush lips gently joined the thin ones in a deep long kiss.

Entwined in each other's arms, two silhouettes stood on the lone graveyard, so close they seemed but one, silver and red being the only colors on black and white winter painting.

Behind him America was smiling her rictus bloodied smile, carved into its face by countless wars, yet it no longer concerned Sephiroth as he understood that his nightmare was truly over.

Genesis came back, enemy by fate and lover by choice.

* * *

_**The end.**_


End file.
